


The Assessment

by DormantAllure



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Gen, Humor, John is a Saint, Light Angst, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock's Childhood, sociopath or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 19:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DormantAllure/pseuds/DormantAllure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An army doctor and a consultant detective walk into a psychiatrist’s office…. Sherlock is forced to prove his mental competence in order to be allowed to continue consulting for Scotland Yard. Sherlock thinks this is preposterous. John thinks it’s basically what you get for calling in bomb threats to hospitals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John is livid. Sherlock is confused.

“I solved the case, John! That fact somehow seems to be eluding all of you lesser minds —”

“Never mind the carnage because lo and behold, the magnificent Sherlock Holmes has solved another puzzle! Do the rest of us ever register on your radar or are you actually the first man to actually be a bloody island? Did you for a minute spare a thought to how much work it would take to evacuate a whole bloody hospital?!”

“I saw no viable alternative at that time to the plan I chose to execute.”

“You mean you fell in love with your own brilliant idea so much it never occurred to you to maybe use me as a sounding board?”

“You are not very well-versed in making grand plans to catch criminals, John,” Sherlock remarks dryly.

“Maybe not, but I’m bloody well versed in common sense!”

“Remind me again why I have to go through this nonsense.”

John huffs. He knows full well Sherlock remembers their earlier conversation with Lestrade as well as he does.

“If you don’t want to get arrested and especially if you still want a slim chance to continue with this consultant thing, you are required to be evaluated by a Yard-affiliated psychiatrist.” the DI had said, sounding like he really didn’t want to be the bearer of this sort of news to Sherlock Holmes. John did not know whether Sherlock had had much prior contact with mental health professionals but he was somehow certain he would revel in the chance to verbally fillet people who tried to get inside his head. Analyzing, deducing and manipulating people was Sherlock’s forte, not the other way around. 

“Perhaps when I am less busy —“ Sherlock had tried to sound nonchalant, as though he wasn’t still very much handcuffed to the interrogation room table.

“Not in a week, a month or a year, Sherlock.” Lestrade had replied, his tone not leaving much room for argument. “You will see this guy on Friday. Non-negotiable.”

And that was how they’d ended up at the waiting room of the Scotland Yard Occupational Health Unit.

“If you behave yourself and tell the whole story underlining your good intentions I’m sure they’re willing to look past this little incident.” John tries to sound encouraging but with little success. He’s still surprisingly angry. Why, he doesn’t really fully understand himself.

“Your optimism is breathtaking in its naiveté, John. Lestrade’s superiors are quite prone to histrionics over nothing. Bomb threats are almost an everyday occurrence in London.”

“Yes, but usually they are not made by Scotland Yard consulting detectives. I think it’s quite reasonable for them to demand a psychological assessment.”

“As I have repeatedly told you and everyone else, I needed a distraction. I consider it rather detrimental to the London crime rate to waste my time with —“

“Spare me the lecture. Who knows, maybe it could even be good for you to talk about the stressful stuff that happens to you. Serial killers and whatnot.”

“I talk to you,” Sherlock offers.

“You mostly talk AT me. And you usually stick to facts or a nonsensical flow of conscience.”

“It’s never nonsensical. It’s not my fault if you are unable to follow the narrative.”

“Half of it is usually muttering and half of it is individual words that I’m somehow telepathically supposed to translate into sentences.”

“I don’t need to talk about The Work. Cases come and go, thinking happens, murderers get caught.”

“And sometimes you endanger the general public or otherwise break the law in the process.”

“You choose not to stop me it and then get all ‘I told you so, Sherlock” afterwards. That’s a double standard.”

“I didn’t put you up to this, Lestrade did. Or his boss did, more accurately.”

“And you seemed delighted at the thought of letting someone make me fill out some useless questionnaires so they could tick some boxes and state that I was probably unfit to act as a consultant.”

“You - we - see a lot of stuff nobody should be seeing. Maybe it would be good to talk about it sometimes. A debriefing of sorts.”

“Just listen to yourself. If ‘talking’ and ‘reflecting’ and all that nonsense worked, the pharmaceutical industry would not be making billions with selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors and other such chemical attempts at dissolving stupidity.”

“People are not anxious, depressed or otherwise mentally ill because they’re stupid, Sherlock.”

“No, but seeing something as unscientific as therapy as a solution is strong evidence that idiocy might play some part in their plight. Any mental health professional in their right mind would see that I am none of those things you described.”

“Just think of it as a formality, then. Everyone in the force who works in violent crimes does mandatory counseling.”

“Oh how lovely.”

“Could you at least try and be civil? You know they need your input and the results of this evaluation will probably not deter them from using you, whatever the assessment might end up being. Still, wouldn’t want to give Donovan any new ammunition, would we?”

Sherlock does not reply. Instead, he starts fiddling with his phone.

“Gentlemen?” comes a voice from a nearby doorway after a few minutes. John looks up from the magazine he’s been pretending to read in order to be spared from Sherlock’s diatribe (this never works but he tries anyway). Sherlock’s mouth is an angry line and he theatrically straightens his collars before standing up. A Dr Oscar Kerry introduces himself, and lets them into his office.

 

 

“I am really pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes. I’ve heard quite a bit about your adventures in the Yard gossip mill.”

“I’m sure the delight is all yours, Dr Kerry.”

“Call me Oscar if you like. I was not aware I was supposed to interview both of you at the same time. I understand you work as an assistant of sorts for Mr Holmes, Dr Watson?”

John nods. “I’m his flatmate as well.”

“FRIEND,” Sherlock emphasizes and John gives him a look. Not a bad look but a look that speaks volumes nonetheless.

“Very well. There might be some issues that I would like to talk to you alone at some point, Mr Holmes. And we’ll see how this goes, I might even wish to do a one-on-one with Dr Watson. The issue of you possibly enabling Mr Holmes’ destructive behavior has been raised by some I have interviewed prior to this.”

John looks taken aback. “I don’t enable him to do anything. He does as he bloody well pleases, regardless of what I or anyone else says or does.”

Sherlock looks uncomfortable. “I’d rather you not talk to us separately. John is already spending enough of his time sharing the details of our lives with the world.”

“Oh yes, the blog was mentioned when I talked to DI Lestrade. Very different from your own, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock shrugs and shifts his attention to Dr Kerry’s empty desk.

“No questionnaires lined up, then? I seem to recall that’s what you lot love.”

“‘Us lot’? It is true psychiatrists sometimes use structured evaluation tools but making assessments that way is more common with evaluations done by psychologists. I prefer to just talk.”

“You’re a psychiatrist?”

“You didn’t deduce that? I find that quite surprising, judging by what I’ve heard of your uncanny abilities.” 

“You’re not - - Are you - -“ John is staring at Sherlock’s hands which are fingering the edges of a decorative pillow.

“Dr Watson? You seem surprised somehow.”

“He’s - - I didn’t realize it before and I feel rather uncomfortable saying it since he’ll hate it but I think he’s a bit nervous. Distracted.”

“Mr Holmes? Is this true? You don’t strike me as the type to get nervous over discussing your work. DI Lestrade said you seemed rather reluctant to come but he figured you just thought this was a colossal waste of time.”

“He figured? I told him as much.”

“Why is that?”

“I never felt there was much benefit to what you people are attempting. I didn’t see it when I was younger and I certainly don’t see it now. I have been consulting with the Yard for seven years now. Not once have I lost the plot or gone off the rails, so to speak, if that’s what the higher-ups are worried about.”

“Sherlock, you phoned in a fake bomb threat. They had to call in the special forces. That’s a bit extreme, wouldn’t you say?”

“I needed access to a certain area of the hospital and the best way to achieve that was - - .”

“We’ll get to that in a bit,” Dr Kerry interrupts. Sherlock huffs, annoyed. 

“Mr Holmes, do you wish to see my credentials before we begin?“

“They are irrelevant. Psychiatry is not a science. It’s more of a collection of labeling agreements. Most of you psychiatrists earn a living through the mundane problems of ordinary people and cannot appreciate the finesse required by my line of work.”

“In case it might pique your interest, I’m actually a forensic psychiatrist, not a generalist.”

“I’m not certain if I am to find that flattering of alarming. I wasn’t aware that forensic psychiatrists did regular staff evaluations for the police.”

“They don’t. Normally, this sort of stuff is handled by the staff psychiatrists and psychologists at the occupational health unit of the police administration. On this particular occasion they felt they needed at outside opinion. I work on a consultant basis like yourself. You are not a police officer, your position is unique and some concerns have been raised concerning your general conduct and the stressful things that have happened to you during the past few years.”

“I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for the bomb incident.”

“I’ll take your word for it for now. We’ll discuss the whole case later on in detail. This is not, however, the first case that your conduct has raised some eyebrows. During the past five years, there have been eleven complaints made about you.”

“Only eleven?” John asks.

“Made by who?” Sherlock asks, ignoring John.

“Two have been filed by a Philip Anderson, one together with a Sally Donovan who has filed four on her own. The rest have come from witnesses and family members of murder victims.” 

“You’re not actually taking those cretins seriously?”

“It says here, I quote: “Sherlock Holmes constantly bullies members of the forensics team, demanding they leave the room or face away from him.”

“I can’t think with too much surrounding sensory input. Anderson’s face puts me off. So does listening to too many idiots breathing in the same space at the same time.”

“Is that a common problem for you, that things in your surroundings that other people wouldn’t notice irritate you?”

“I don’t mind the surroundings in general. London is fascinating with its vibrant urban background hum. It’s mostly people I can’t stand. Their useless prattling on about utterly uninteresting things. I can sense them trying to think but they just don’t know how. It drives me crazy.”

“You think yourself superior to most people, then?”

John snorts. “Does he ever.”

“It does not matter what I think. Look at the results of my work as compared to those tasked with it by profession. We have a trained police force who cannot be trusted to solve more than a lollipop theft at a nursery. Not even one individual stands out among them who could rise to my level. Stupidity is relative. If everyone is, nobody is, really. Until someone really clever comes along.”

“Do you like asserting this superiority?”

“It’s flattering if someone compliments me on it. Everyone likes a bit of praise every now and then.”

“Sometimes I think you consume praise instead of food,” John remarks. He’s finally smiling a bit and this seems to put Sherlock more at ease.

Dr Kerry jots down a few lines of notes. Sherlock is trying hard to read his handwriting upside-down. Dr Kerry notices and frowns. “I’d like to return to your comment about ‘us lot’. You seem to harbour some ill will towards professions that deal with mental health. Is this coming from your background in natural sciences or have you been evaluated before?”

“Both.”

“Please elaborate. You mentioned labeling. Do you feel this has been done to you?”

“He describes himself as a high-functioning sociopath. I’ve always wondered if he diagnosed himself or if someone else did,” John muses.

“Have you been diagnosed with some type of psychiatric pathology or a developmental disorder, Mr Holmes?”

“Both.”

“As an adult or as a child?”

“I was forced to undergo lengthy examinations in my early childhood and my late teens. I was originally thought to be autistic but as childhood diagnoses often go, that notion was challenged later on. When I was sixteen they could not agree on whether I suffered from some benign and common personality disorder or a level of actual psychopathy.”

“You are aware that sociopathy is an outdated term?”

“Quite, yes.”

“Why do you prefer it, then?”

“Psychopathy frightens people. They associate it with fictional villains. Sociopathy is better at describing the social difficulties associated.” 

“That’s true. Even some psychiatrists still use the term because they feel like you do, that psychopathy as a term has been tainted by the media.”

“He likes throwing the sociopathy thing in people’s faces to make them take a step back,” John offers.

“That sounds like a handy way to stop people from trying to get to know you.”

“I have no need for useless acquaintances.”

“Do you have many friends, then, Mr Holmes?”

“You mean people who don’t care if I’m a sociopath?”

“People who see past all that.”

“John would probably be best to answer that.”

“Yes, he has friends. People who like him, even though he can be a real idiot. Me, Molly, Lestrade. I don’t think he’s a sociopath, really.”

“And why is that, Dr Watson?”

“He hates it, but he’s capable of empathy. He’s so purpose-driven he often forgets that his actions might affect other people but he’s loyal, committed and really, really cares when it comes to the few people who’ve become permanent fixtures in his life —”

“I find this interview badly structured,” Sherlock cuts in.

Dr Kerry looks amused. “I’m sorry to disappoint. As you yourself stated, this is not an exact science. I’m merely trying to gauge where your notorious reputation comes from. John seems to view you quite differently from many others.”

Sherlock shifts on the sofa. “John sees good qualities where others do not. John has had ample opportunities to bear witness to my unsavory qualities. Somehow he sees many redeeming ones as well and feels the need to defend me in his blog.”

“And you don’t see yourself in possession of these good qualities?”

Sherlock does not reply.

“It almost seems like you hold it against John that he has chosen to believe you’re not all that bad.”

John looks slightly offended. He’s used to being called an idiot by Sherlock. Somehow it’s different hearing from someone else that Sherlock might not appreciate him all that much.

Sherlock, on the other hand, looks quite cross. “If you are insinuating that I don’t value this friendship above all in my entire life, then you are gravely mistaken. John is not a novelty or a sidekick.” He pointedly glances at the wall clock. “Haven’t we dithered away this appointment yet?” 

Dr Kerry rises from his chair. “You are quite right. I will see you the same time on Monday.”

Sherlock stops on his way to the door. “I was under the impression that I had fulfilled all requirements by showing up today?”

“This is an evaluation that might take several sessions, Mr Holmes, not community service.”

“I’m having a hard time telling the difference—“ Sherlock starts to retort before John decides it’s best to push him out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had been in a foul mood all morning and John suspected the reason was that they were due to return to Dr Kerry’s aubergine sofa that afternoon.

“We did not get much chance to discuss the circumstances which landed you two in my office,” Dr Kerry offers. It’s evident to John that Sherlock had been disappointed with the previous appointment since he had not been given the chance to explain himself properly.

“You mean the actual case?” Sherlock asks, looking hopeful. 

Dr Kerry nods. “Why don’t you start from the beginning.”

Sherlock coughs. “On Wednesday the seventh of October I arrived home to find John consoling an irritatingly hysterical woman by the name of Astrid Chadwick.”

John sighs. “She’d just lost her grandmother.”

“Who she was absolutely convinced was a murder victim,” Sherlock announces.

“And what did the police think?” Dr Kerry asks.

“It was typical. They thought the case was open and close. An old woman dies in hospital and the possibility of murder never occurs to them.”

“That’s quite a generalization, don’t you think, Mr Holmes? After Harold Shipley—“

“There’s an infantile saying that an exception confirms a rule. This is nonsense, but most people seem to follow this credo. I do not think that Shipley’s case has done much to raise awareness of the possibility of violent criminals working within the NHS.”

“What made Miss Chadwick believe in foul play, then?”

“Almonds. Quite clever of her, actually.”

“Almonds?”

“Her grandmother never used any kind of perfumes or scented bath products. She remembers a strong scent of almonds surrounding her body when the relatives were allowed to view her.”

“And?”

“Potassium cyanide has a strong scent similar to almond flowers. Only a certain percentage of the population are capable of sensing the smell. Sadly, I am not among those.” 

“Of course you would have tested that,” John remarks and rolls his eyes.

“The proper toxicology could easily have identified potassium cyanide but since no inquiry was actually done and Mrs Chadwick had already been cremated by the time her granddaughter approached us, the point was moot. We would have to catch the murderer in the act. She would undoubtedly strike again.”

“Why did you think it would be a woman, then? And a serial killer?” Dr Kerry asks.

“Statistically, the so-called Angels of Death, health care workers who commit serial murder, are more likely to be women than men,” John replies. 

Dr Kerry nods. “That is correct.”

“Mrs Chadwick had no life insurance policy and no other living relatives besides Astrid. No other motive than a non-personal one presented itself.”

“Anyway, that’s when Sherlock began to hatch his ridiculous plan of going undercover,” John adds.

“That explains the pictures in the papers,” Dr Kerry comments. John grimaces. The tabloids had had a field day with Sherlock standing in the hospital parking lot handcuffed to a police car, yelling like a madman as he was trying to convince Lestrade that the next person walking out the staff door would be a serial killer. He would have probably looked a little less crazy if he had been wearing a little more than a backless patient gown. “Why a patient and not just some random visitor?”

Sherlock looks at him, clearly disappointed in his idiocy. “As a visitor I would not be privy to staff gossip. Patients hear a lot more of that.”

“A staff member, then? A doctor?” Dr Kerry suggests, amused.

“Although I am quite certain I would not have any trouble with the scientific side of things - most doctors are cretins, anyway - but not being able to, say, fill in a prescription sheet properly would raise some eyebrows. Nurse was ruled out as well, largely for the same reasons.”

“Why you and not John? He could have easily passed as a staff member?”

“I did not want to jeopardize John’s career. Besides, he has worked at All Hallows infirmary at one point in his career so they would probably recognize him, which would complicate things. If he was merely visiting a friend none would bat an eyelid.”

“That sort of left posing as a patient the only option.”

“Why go undercover in the first place? Why not simply aid the police?” Dr Kerry asks.

“As I said, the police had already closed their investigation. Bringing them in would merely cause the murderer to stay dormant. We needed to entice her to strike again.”

“Didn’t the staff realize you weren’t ill?”

“I won’t disclose the exact details or how and by whom, but I will say that suitable records can be entered into the NHS system and as long as the diagnosis was plausible, no one suspected anything.”

“What were you be riddled with, then?”

“Cytarabine toxicity,” Sherlock announces proudly.

“Elaborate.”

“Cytarabine, as you may or may not know, is a - -“

“Cytostat. Used in cancer treatments. I did attend medical school,” Dr Kerry reminds him.

“Correct. It has a rather narrow therapeutical range. In excessive doses it can harm the conducting electrical pathways of the myocardium. An erroneously large dose of it would require extensive rhythm monitoring. And since it has an astonishingly long elimination half-life, it would take approximately 1,5 weeks for the level to descend enough.”

“And such a person would not likely show any symptoms besides the potential for dysrhytmias?”

“Good, you’re keeping up.”

“Why would you have received such a dose, then?”

“Testicular cancer!” Sherlock positively beams at his own brilliancy while John looks like he wants to disappear into thin air. 

“Couldn’t you have picked something a bit more - - Or less - - I don’t know,” John mutters.

“Would you like to hear the epidemiological statistics of different cancers in male British age groups for the third time, John?”

“Not really, no. I don’t think Dr Kerry wants, either.”

“Anyway, cytarabine poisoning also explained the changing of hospitals.”

“How?” Dr Kerry inquires, looking intrigued.

“Would I ever agree to be treated in a place where the charlatans didn’t even know how to dilute a dose of cytostat properly?”

“Fair enough.” Dr Kerry glances at the wall clock. “I’m very interested in hearing how this plan worked but I’m afraid this is all the time I have available for you today, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock looks slightly disappointed. John realizes he would have wanted to flaunt the full extent of his shrewdness to Dr Kerry.

 

 

They return for a third appointment. It seems that Dr Kerry is rather keen on hearing how their investigation progressed, but he tells them he wants to hear more about some relevant information on Sherlock’s background first. This does not please said consultant detective.

“And what would constitute relevant in this context?” Sherlock enquires and John thinks he looks stiff as a board. He hasn’t even removed his coat.

“The usual. Family, education, important life experiences and so forth. You don’t look convinced.”

“I fail to see how divulging such things would aid you in coming to the conclusion that my occasionally socially unacceptable conduct warrants no further discussion?”

“I’m trying to determine what sort of a stress control skill set you might have and what ticks you off, so to speak. For this I need to hear where you’re coming from, what sort of life you have lead.”

“Very well. Although I cannot fathom why you would not be able to get all that from my personnel file.”

“You don’t have a personnel file since you don’t officially work for the police, Mr Holmes.”

“And somehow they still feel entitled to make me jump through hoops such as this?”

“DI Lestrade made it quite clear that unless you pass this evaluation, his boss and his boss’ boss’ will no longer condone your involvement.”

“They will reconsider, when their solve rate will plummet and London will dissolve into criminal anarchy.”

John sighs.

 

 

 

“Where were you educated?”

“Woodward Hill Elementary School in Surrey until age 13, then sent off to Harrow.”

“You must come from a family of means, then. Harrow is quite expensive.”

“My mother received a substantial award in her field and this combined with two salaries was enough to ship me and my older brother off.”

“You choice of words points to a dislike of Harrow.”

“In a normal school, I could come home after each school day to attend to my hobbies. In Harrow I was constantly forced to interact with the other students. It was vile.”

“You didn’t enjoy communal living, then?”

“I have never felt comfortable in any type of peer group.”

“Did you not get along?”

“I got along fine with myself. But none else wished to get along with me.”

“What about your brother? Did you get along at school?”

“He tried his damnedest to aid me in blending in. Up to the point of trying to teach me how to swim after I had expressed some mild interest in joining the rowing team. Basic swimming skills were a prerequisite.”

“How’d it go?”

“He was such a terrible teacher I broke his cricket bat.”

Dr Kerry smiles and so does John. It’s not difficult for him to imagine such a scene, a young, crookedly smirking Sherlock with two halves of a bat, representing them triumphantly to a young Mycroft who looks as though his head might explode.

“And?” Dr Kerry inquires.

“He let loose my polo pony.”

John loses his composure. Dr Kerry gives him a sideways glance. “Has your big brother been a significant influence in your life, then? Someone you look up to?”

“Perhaps he might’ve been if he wasn’t a pompous asshat,” Sherlock replies. This does not aid John is stopping laughing.

“That’s a no, then.” 

To John’s surprise, Sherlock looks like he might add something. “My older brother shares my intellect but in addition has a formidable set of social skills.”

“What field is he employed in?”

“Politics. Surprised you haven’t heard of him. He’ll probably read your notes later on.”

“Mr Holmes, I assure you that I take doctor-patient confidentiality extremely seriously - -“

“Oh that won’t be up to you.”

Dr Kerry looks at him quietly, looking confused. Then he straightens his posture, ready to plow on. “You mentioned difficulties in relating to your peers. Do you consider yourself introverted?”

“To a certain extent, yes. I don’t crave the company of others constantly like the so-called extroverts seem to. I do consider certain company to be an effective catalyst for thinking and bouncing off ideas, though. John’s company, to be precise.”

“What makes John different from those you can’t get along with?”

“For some reason John does not consider those traits of mine that so annoy others to be a detergent. He thinks I’m brilliant and for some reason seems to enjoy my company. Whether this is due to some personality deficit of his, an alarming need for danger or whathaveyou, I can’t really tell.”

“I can guess that you don’t think of yourself as a team player.”

“The educational purpose of team sports elude me. It is mostly exceptional individuals that elevate a team to success so why would these individual not wish to work alone? They could achieve more if there weren’t idiots hanging onto their coattails and getting undue credit.”

“You said that company can help you in your work.”

“Yes, but I only need the one, not a team. God knows I would never want eleven normal people following me.” Sherlock spits out the word normal like a moldy piece of bread.

“What about family life, then? Are your parents still living?”

“Both of them, yes. My childhood was normal on all accounts. No major tragedies. I was fed, clothed, loved, encouraged. 

“Was it your parents who initiated these psychological evaluations and why did they do so? A lot of children have trouble getting along with other children. Anything in particular that worried them?”

“I refused to speak until I was four years of age, My parents’ worries about my mutism were somewhat lessened by my wide vocabulary when I finally decided to use it. Still, I think what irked them the most was my lack of interest in other people and my focus on the physical world and science such as elements, numbers and suchlike.”

“Go on.”

“Later on my teachers were alarmed by my honesty and my interest in what ordinary people would think of as morbid things, explosives and poisons. I still don’t know what is so terrible about honesty.”

“Not lying is not the same as blurting out things that people don’t want others to know about,” John interjects.

“Secrets will usually come out at some point, anyway. Waste of energy to try and keep them.”

“You don’t have any secrets, then, Mr Holmes?”

“Everyone has secrets, doctor. It’s the motive to keep them that varies.”

“What’s yours then?”

“For most it’s shame. People withhold things they’re embarrassed about. For me it is practicality.”

“Could you give an example of this practicality?”

“I don’t like listening to John yelling at me. So I don’t tell him about things that I do that might elicit that reaction.”

“I only yell because I care more about your, well, transport than you do,” John remarks grimly.

“Transport?”

“My corporeal being apart from my brain, which is the only thing of value within it.”

“Do you think you take good care of this transport, then? John doesn’t seem to think so.”

“I fill its needs when they begin interfering with my thinking.”

“Sounds a bit harsh. What about relationships? Both our physical and mental wellbeing requires those.”

“I can function fine without them. Ergo, they are not analogue to food or sleep.” 

“Sociality and sexuality are fundamental human traits, Mr Holmes.”

“I consider myself married to my work. Whatever companionship is offered I accept but do not seek it.”

“You live with Dr Watson - -“

“We’re just flatmates!” John cheerily announces.

“- - And you stated before that his presence in conducive for your success in your thinking processes.”

“I like having him around, yes, if that it how you so desperately want to phrase it.”

“What about other significant relationships? Have you been close with your brother during the recent years?”

“He would like to think so. I would like the arrogant dolt to go drown in a lake.”

“Have you ever been in a romantic relationship?”

John’s interest in clearly piqued.

“Define.”

“Dating someone, married to someone, engaged to someone, involved with someone, sexually active with someone?”

“I don’t see the relevance of this question and decline to answer.”

“Is there currently anyone you find yourself drawn to in this respect?”

“I hate repeating myself.”

“Why do you want to solve crimes, Mr Holmes?”

“Why would I not? Most historical puzzles have been solved or there is not enough evidence to attempt them now. My lack of credentials prevents me from joining the scientific community and seeking new scientific discoveries. Most criminals are idiots but every once in awhile you find true gems among them.”

“Have you ever sought a career in law enforcement?”

“Ticking your boxes, then? ‘Most criminal psychopaths are police groupies and have at some point attempted to employ themselves in a similar field but have not passed the aptitude tests’? I can assure you, doctor, that I have never applied to become anything resembling a law enforcement officer. The collective stupidity among the current British police forces would drive me insane in a month.”

“I understand that you are a trained chemist but you never finished your degree?”

“I found academical culture to favor mediocrity and those who are proficient at office politics. Talent, novelty of results or a formidable knowledge base will get you nowhere if the chair of the faculty hates your proverbial guts. As I said, I did not get along. And I saw no need for a degree at that time. I was more interested in the practical application of the field.”

“That what you call shooting up heroin?” John sounds quite sad and a bit accusing.

“It was a phase,” Sherlock remarks lightly. “One I abandoned after discovering this consultancy business could offer other means of mental stimulation.”

“Do you currently use any mind-altering substances or are you on any regular medications?”

“No to both.”

John grabs Sherlock’s sleeve and drags it upwards, revealing a neat row of three nicotine patches.

“John, you know full well my use of the patches is irregular, seasonal, even.”

“Are you trying to quit, Mr Holmes?”

“They help me think.”

“Nicotine could be categorised as a narcotic for anyone who has smoked regularly.”

“Once he stuck seven on himself and passed out in the loo,” John reveals.

“Thank you for that, John,” Sherlock remarks dryly. “As I said, Seasonal and irregular. I was merely trying to discern my limits on that occasion.”

“In several of the complaints, your behaviour at crime scenes has been described as erratic, manic and your emotional state inappropriate for the situation.”

“Yes?”

“Those could be signs of substance abuse.”

“That’s not in any way unusual behaviour for Sherlock. He’s not using. I’d know. I live with him, remember?” John says wearily.

“Very well. DI Lestrade has also stated that he does not believe you have been using any narcotics during the past years. He seems to have some experience in evaluating this.”

“He helped me quit back when I was still using.”

“Are there any situations that might pose a risk for relapse?”

John is looking at Sherlock as though encouraging him to say something. Sherlock glances at him. “Danger nights?” John asks softly.

“John, my brother and Lestrade do not have as much faith as they should in my ability to curb my yearnings.”

“That’s a no, then?”

John looks skeptical.


	3. Chapter 3

Session four finds John and Sherlock dripping rainwater onto Dr Kerry’s couch. They’d left late and forgotten their umbrellas. 

“What sort of feelings did you have after our previous session, Mr Holmes?” Dr Kerry opens, twirling a fountain pen in his fingers.

“I was merely wondering how many such discussions I might have to endure.”

“Usually an evaluation like this takes about ten hours.” Sherlock makes a theatrical eyeroll. “More, if there are any pressing issues that come up. Maybe we could now move onto discussing the case that lead you to this evaluation.”

Sherlock nods, looking slightly less exasperated.

“So, Astrid Chadwick hired you and you hatched a plan to go undercover as a patient?”

“We didn’t discuss money.”

“Every once in awhile, I wish you would”, John interjects. “We’ve got bills, you know.”

Sherlock flicks his hand dismissively. “Mycroft will sort them. I do wish you wouldn’t so preoccupy yourself with such trivial matters. The Work, John, that’s where your focus should be.”

“Your focus is never anywhere else. Someone needs to sort the laundry.”

“It seems that discussing what happened is irritating John.”

“I have been wondering about that. We have gone through many cases together, but for some reasons John is quite cross with me on this one. No harm came to any hospital staff or patient - quite contrary, since we stopped a serial killer.”

“No harm? Manpower, a cardiac ICU bed and many other sorts of resources were wasted on your non-existing illness,” John reminds him indignantly. “Besides, you hate hospitals,” John reminds him, “Posing as a patient feels like some sort of an excuse to torment my colleagues and other hospital staff for your past experiences with the NHS.”

“My dislike of individuals who see fit to murder gentle old ladies in their sleep is much greater then my dislike of the health system.”

“So there was an angel of death at work at All Hallows? She hasn’t been officially indicted yet, you know.”

“Dr Fiona Cotterill was found exiting the hospital last of all evacuees with potassium cyanide carried on her person.”

“Still, it’s sort of circumstantial.”

Sherlock looks indignant. "The ring! She does not wear it around her neck like most other doctors working in wards, nor is it worn and dim and the rings of most widows. It looks brand new, and she wears it on her finger despite hospital regulations. She has many telltale signs of a widow, but none of the flat affect or resignation of someone who has truly let someone go in peace. I'd say that's more than circumstantial. It practically reeks of obsession."

Dr Kerry looks impressed. 

“And potassium cyanide is not used in the treatment of any known illnesses. Unless she had a goldmine in her hospital locker there aren’t any legitimate reasons to carry that around.”

“She is claiming it’s for a jewel making hobby,” Dr Kerry says.

Sherlock snorts. “Far-fetched is the word, doctor."

“What about a motive? I am scheduled to exam her later this week, before the trial begins so would be very interested to hear your opinion.”

Sherlock straightens his lapels like he often does when preparing for a lengthy speech. “As I found out through the hospital grapevine - it’s astounding how the staff gossip about such deeply personal matters when they merely think a patient is asleep in the same room - Dr Cotterill had lost her husband to advanced idiopathic cardiomyopathy. He was on the transplant list but a suitable donor did not manifest in time.”

“That happens to a lot of people. You still don’t see them murdering others.”   
“As an internist Dr Cotterill is not automatically privy to the transplant lists - those are classified and the national board sits on the papers before a decision is made. But one of her own patients was on that list and received a transplant a month before her husband. This patient, however, was bipolar and neglected his counter-rejection medication as soon as he left the hospital. John heard Dr Cotterill discussing the case with one of his colleagues when he was visiting.”

“Go on.”

“It was not much to go on, but she’d used to word “unworthy” when describing this patient. Who else could be unworthy in the eyes of someone driven mad by grief who has witnessed NHS resources being wasted on other people instead on her supposedly more deserving husband?”

“An old lady?” Dr Kerry connects the dots.

“Dr Cotterill had consulted on her case. Only on paper, and Astrid was not even aware of her existence, but that’s how she came onto Sherlock’s radar. Astrid had opposed to the doctors’ suggestions of a DNR order for Mrs Chadwick. Dr Cotterill had been a strong advocate for it without even coming to even see her,” John explains.

“Some of the staff were making remarks about her hardened attitudes towards patient to whom medicine did not have much to offer anymore or who failed to comply with doctors’ instructions. Still, this was, as you said, circumstantial. I contacted the family of the patient who did receive a transplant heart. They told me he died in hospital and methanol was found in his bloodstream. He was a recovering alcoholic so a cheap alcohol replacement is not too surprising, but this was a business executive whose family told me in no uncertain terms that his tastes were expensive and as far as they could tell, he’d been sober for a year before the transplant. He wouldn’t have gotten one without sobriety. He was a Macallan and Ardbeck man, not someone who would buy a cheap bottle of whatever poison from a street corner.” 

“As for the psychiatric issues he had, it’s not surprising he could react strongly to such a life-altering even as a cardiac transplant,” Dr Kerry tells him, “Even patients with strong mental health are prone to depression and even borderline psychotic episodes after the physical transplant process. For someone with bipolar disorder coping would be a major challenge.” 

Sherlock nods. “Still, as another triumph of our justice system, no inquiry was launched into how this whisky connoisseur had decided to kill himself with windscreen wiper fluid. They chalked it up to depression and left it at that. I very much suspect this was Cotterill’s first victim.”

“How did all this lead to the bomb incident, then?”

“I had to identify a potential victim. It didn’t take long, since no heat was on about Mrs Chadwick. Before long, the wonderful Dr Cotterill began having fantasies of ridding the world a former drug addict whose cancer the NHS was spending a considerable amount of money on, even though he was clearly the most unagreeable personality the cardiac ICU had ever housed.”

John suddenly stands up. “You - - I thought you just - -“ 

“Do finish a sentence, John. I find it insulting that you think I would have behaved so appallingly just to spite the brotherhood of your venerable profession. I had a murderer to catch, I didn’t have time to be a brat just for fun.” 

John grits his teeth. “Sherlock, seriously. You never told me you used yourself of fucking bait for this psycho!”

“That was a much more controllable scenario than having to tail her around wards as she sought out some other unworthy.” John is still standing, fingers clenched into fists.

“You seem very upset, John,” Dr Kerry says softly and Sherlock glares daggers at him.

“Fucking hell. I’m upset, yeah, because this idiot here keeps trying to get himself killed. It’s not enough that he gets into dangerous situations, I can’t take it when he decides to do it without even telling me! Sometimes it really makes me wonder whether he really cares about others like he says in his good days or if he just wants to have his fucked up fun and forgets everybody else in the process.”

“I do care, John,” Sherlock replies quietly, averting his eyes.

Dr Kerry looks at him carefully while John huffs and puffs by the window. “How does this caring manifest itself? I’m aware that he faked a suicide and made you the live recipient of his suicide note slash phone call, forcing you to watch. That does not sound very caring.”

John Watson looks like he’s been slapped in the face. Sherlock looks lost in thought and Dr Kerry suspects he just wants to evade this line of inquiry altogether.

“John was the only one who could convince everyone else that I was gone. We have dealt with this, I’ve apologized.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Really. I must’ve been someplace else. Like in a tube carriage preparing to be blown to bits. Or being turned into a bloody Sunday roast in a bonfire. Couldn’t you just once tone down the crazy and the reckless and the suicidal and let me in on the plans.”

“I’d be boring!” Sherlock suddenly stands up, looking rather dejected. “I’d be so tedious and you would LEAVE!”

John’s pacing comes to a halt. Dr Kerry raises his eyebrows.

“Excuse me?” John asks and doesn’t sound very angry anymore. “What on earth are you on about?”

Sherlock sighs, not looking at John. “You want it, expect it. You want me to be interesting, fascinating, unpredictable. You complain and nag and demand for reason and manners but it’s just a smokescreen. I see it so clearly, you love the danger, the chase as much as I do. I worry about the day I won’t be able to perform.”

“Sherlock, I don’t stick around for the theatrics. It’s not all fireworks and murders. How is it possible you haven’t realize I love spending time with you regardless of whether there’s a murder spree going on or not. Sure, it’s fun what we do but you really don’t have to fire guns in Belgravia, threaten to explode hospitals or jump into the Thames. Actually, you are hereby banned from jumping into the Thames since you can’t actually swim.”

Sherlock looks confused. 

Dr Kerry scribbles something down in his notebook. “John, if I’ve understood correctly you think some of the the more reckless behavior that has alarmed the Yard is a result of him trying to entertain you?”

“That’s conjecture,” Sherlock mutters.

John sits down and gently touches Sherlock’s sleeve. “You effectively said so yourself, you berk. You think you could tone done the theatrics, then? I promise I’m perfectly content to just get you home in one piece even if it means less hair-raising tactics in catching all these criminals.”

Sherlock does not reply and John takes this as a yes. 

“Why a bomb threat in particular?”

“I made a slight mistake. As an ICU patient I was constantly surrounded by staff, making me a not very enticing victim. Cotterill initially courted the idea but I noticed her interest lessening after awhile. She was also becoming more erratic, meaning the temptation was becoming harder to resist. If I was to prevent some other patient getting killed I had to act fast. I deduced that she would not care much for her own safety, and would likely make use of a chaotic situation such as a bomb threat. I could not use a fire alarm because as you have probably noticed, none ever reacts to those nowadays, especially not in hospitals. It also needed to be something that would make the police control all exits more carefully and arrive fast. Thus, a bomb.” 

“And this idiot here used his own phone to do it.”

“Well they were bound to find out at some point, and it wasn’t feasible for me to traipse around in that hideously flimsy sheet making phone calls without arousing suspicion. Besides, I was certain all charges would be dropped after Lestrade was made aware of the circumstances. Like the fact that there was no bomb.” 

“As I told you before, they can’t just take your word for it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sulks. John turns to Dr Kerry. “Ready to make up your mind, Dr?”

Dr Kerry carefully places his pen onto his desk. “I think I am.”

 

 

 

 

They leave the Yard premises after getting coffee at the cafeteria. Sherlock isn’t exactly cheery - more weary, if anything, but John feels quite relaxed now that he won’t have to observe Sherlock clashing wits with the psychiatrist anymore.

For some reasons Sherlock isn’t hailing a cab.

“You want to walk, then?” John enquires, hurrying after him with a half-job and cursing his flatmate’s legs that are considerably longer than his own. 

“Why not.” Sherlock slows down before a red pedestrian light. In a moment they’re standing side by side, waiting for it to change back to green. Sherlock’s phone beeps and he digs it out of his pocket. A wicked smile spreads on his features as he reads the message.

“Well?” John inquires.

“It’s Lestrade. Massacre in Croydon. Our presence is requested. Looks like me might need a cab after all.” Sherlock hails one and they enter.

“You really can’t swim, then?” John asks after a few minutes of London whirling by.

Sherlock blinks and turns his piercing gaze to John. “Shut up.”

John raises his eyebrows. “You want me to try to - -“

“Lord, no.”

“I bet I’d be a better teacher than Mycroft.” John feigns innocence, “I promise not to smack your pony or anything.”

“I thought I specifically requested you to shut up, John,” Sherlock retorts. His gaze has returned to the opposite side of the crossing but he’s smiling. So is John, and soon their laughter merges with the sound of afternoon traffic.

 

\- The End -


End file.
